Never Let Me Go
by LadyOfThieves
Summary: Set fifteen years after the film ends, this is Lucan's story. He has lived for fifteen years in ignorance of the first six years of his life, and now, when Arthur chooses him as his squire, his life will never again be the same.
1. Squire

**A/N –** Well here we go – the long-awaited chapter one of 'Never Let Me Go'. Wow, I am so amazingly big-headed blushes and apologises. Sorry, getting carried away with my own brilliance again (I'm high on hot cross buns at the moment, hence the slightly hyperness – seriously though, the government should warn people how addictive toasted hot cross buns are!)

Back to sanity, and I want to thank Homeric for being so wonderful as to beta this chapter. I hope you guys like it, and please, please review – any suggestions etc would be so helpful, as I'm kinda floundering around in the dark right now, plot-wise.

I hope that you don't disapprove too much of the huge difference in Lucan's character, but, eventually, it will be sorted. Promise! I'm rambling on now, so I will say adieu, and be off to watch my brother perform in Shakespeare's 'The Merry Wives of Windsor'. Enjoy:

* * *

**Chapter One: Squire**

'_God, grant me the serentiy to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference'_

_Reinhold Niebuhr_

"Lucan!" a man shouted, walking hurriedly through a bustling yard, as he skirted the horses nervously. "Lucan!"

A man of about twenty-one years raised his head, a truculent scowl on his face. He was balancing a horse's hoof in one hand, and the other held a red-hot shoe, grasped in a pair of tongs.

"What is it?" he asked irritably, leaning back over the hoof as he pressed the shoe against it. He had unruly dark hair that fell over his eyes, concealing the customary scowl on his otherwise not unhandsome face.

"The King wants to see you," the messenger said, looking agitatedly at Lucan's patched and stained clothes.

Lucan's head came up quickly. "Why?" he asked curtly.

The messenger shrugged. "Why should I know?" he asked impatiently. "He's waiting for you on the wall."

Lucan put the horse's hoof down and gave the horse a friendly slap on the rump as he dropped the shoe in a bucket of water, where it immediately sent up a cloud of steam.

"Marek!" he shouted, and a man in his mid-thirties stuck his head up from behind another horse. "I've got to go and see the King," Lucan said, pulling his leather blacksmith's apron off.

"God save us," the older man said. "What have you done this time?" he yelled at Lucan's retreating form. He sighed and glanced at the messenger. "Typical, the King has been here for a day, and already he's heard about that boy."

"Trouble is he?" the messenger asked, looking warily at the horse who was observing him with bored eyes.

"Not 'alf," the old blacksmith said. "He came here when he was six or seven we reckon, just about when the Romans left. No parents, nothing."

"Who brought him?" the messenger asked curiously.

Marek shrugged as he put down the horse's hoof and winced as he straightened up. "No one seems to know. It's like he just grew out of the stonework."

"He was six you say?" the messenger asked. "Surely he must remember something before then?"

"Apparently not. It's like he's blotted out any memory of life before he came here. I used to hear him scream out in his sleep, so I reckon whatever happened to him before he came here can't have been good."

"He's your apprentice?" the messenger asked.

"Not really," the blacksmith said thoughtfully. "He's better with horses than any I've known, and he hangs around the stables all day, so I get him to help me. It keeps him out of trouble," he said with an apologetic shrug.

"He gets in a lot of trouble?"

"All the time. Fighting mostly."

"Girls?"

"Actually no," the blacksmith said, sounding faintly surprised. "You'd think that a boy like that would be the one that fathers lock their daughters up from, but the only contact he has with them is usually to escort them home after knocking out the man who's been trying to hurt 'em. Strange boy he is, but there's none better with the horses."

The messenger made a disapproving noise in his throat.

"Why does the King want him, then?" Marek asked, as he hammered at a shoe over the anvil.

"He's got some foolhardy notion about wanting to make the boy his groom."

"Bloody 'ell," the blacksmith said in shock. "Bloody 'ell."

* * *

Lucan ran up the stairs to the wall two at a time. At the top of the steps stood the King. He had his back to the keep, and was staring out at the fields that surrounded them, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned as Lucan reached the top of the stairs and surveyed Lucan in silence for a moment. 

Lucan, determined not to be intimidated, stared back. Arthur was not yet an old man, and yet his face was careworn and tired.

"What've I done?" he finally asked in a rebellious voice.

Arthur chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. "Why is it that whenever I want to talk to someone they always assume that they're in trouble?" he asked, more to himself than for Lucan's benefit. "Why?" he asked suddenly. "_Should_ you be in trouble?"

Lucan shrugged. "I haven't been in a fight for nearly a week, sir," he told Arthur, almost choking over the 'sir', but knowing well enough that he would be a fool to treat the man who could end his life with a single word with any less respect. "So I don't reckon so."

"You fight a lot?" Arthur asked, his voice suddenly serious.

Lucan shrugged. "I guess so sir," he said, staring out across the plains before them.

"You will stop," Arthur told him. "My squire will not go around with a black eye and bloody nose."

"Your squire?" Lucan asked, his head coming up immediately, and the scowl momentarily fading.

"Yes," Arthur told him. "You will be my squire from today until I see fit to dismiss you from the post." Inside, he was suddenly wondering if it was such a good idea to find the child that Dagonet had rescued all those years ago. He certainly wasn't expecting Lucan to be anything like the man before him.

"Father! Father!" came a girl's cry, and Lucan heard light footsteps come running up the rough stone stairs. He turned to see a young woman run up, holding her long skirts hitched up with one hand, her long, loose hair flying out behind her. She was, he knew, Arthur's only child, and the very image of her mother. Dark, almost raven hair framed a delicate face, and yet she had neither her mother's soft dark eyes, nor Arthur's light brown ones. Instead her eyes burned with a dark thunder.

"Sienna!" her father remonstrated her gently. "Can't you see I'm talking?"

"Oh, I'm sorry father," the girl said, blushing, and she looked up shyly at Lucan. She was about fifteen years old, and already showing signs of becoming a beautiful woman.

"This is my daughter, Sienna," said Arthur, introducing them. "And Sienna, this is Lucan, my new squire."

Lucan scowled irritably, for he was angry at having no choice in the matter, but he bowed his head to her nonetheless. Sienna swept her skirts out in a regal curtsey, her eyes mocking him slightly, before she turned back to her father.

"Mother wants to see you," she told him.

"I will be along in a minute," he told her, and, recognising a dismissal when she heard one, Sienna ran lightly back down the steps.

"The knights' squires will be in the royal stables," Arthur told Lucan. "Go to them, and they will tell you what needs doing. You are now personally responsible for the condition of my weapons, my armour, and my horse. I trust you will not forget it," a steely note that Lucan could not miss had come into the King's voice. "I do not expect you to get into trouble of any kind, Lucan. You belong to me now, mind, body and soul, and I will not hesitate to punish you if I feel it necessary."

Lucan's scowl deepened. He was used to getting such warnings, and rarely paid any heed to them.

"Go now," Arthur told him. "I will want my horse to be ready for me first thing tomorrow morning."

Lucan nodded, though his glower did nothing to diminish, and left, stalking angrily down the steps.

Arthur sighed as he watched Lucan storm across the courtyard below. What had he let himself in for?

* * *

Lucan made his way back to the smithy, where the blacksmith was still at work. He looked up when Lucan approached, and took in his surly eyes and lowered brows in a single glance. He had known Lucan for fifteen years, and had learnt to read his moods, for his own safety as much as anything else. 

"Well?" he asked, standing up and looking at Lucan sternly.

"He's made me his squire," Lucan said, and had the pleasure of seeing the older man's jaw drop.

"God save us all," the blacksmith whispered.

"I came to say goodbye," Lucan said, nothing in his voice indicating any kind of affectionate emotion, but Marek knew that this was as close as Lucan got to kindness. "I know where my debts lie, and I know that I 'ent been nothing but trouble to you. So thank you."

"You've been a great help in the forge," the blacksmith said, amazed that he was on the receiving end of such warmth from Lucan.

Lucan shrugged, turning away so that Marek wouldn't see his face. "I'll probably see you around, but I wanted to say thank you."

The old blacksmith smiled and nodded. "Good luck boy," he said.

Lucan hesitated for a moment, and then turned and slouched off in his usual manner, leaving a bemused and strangely happy blacksmith behind him.

* * *

Lucan entered the royal stables with a scowl on his face. He was aware of the hostile gazes of the squires, but was not worried about them. He had lived most of his life as an outcast, and no longer cared for others' opinions of him. 

"Yes?" one of the squires asked belligerently.

Lucan looked at the young man who spoke. He was sitting on a bench with a saddle on his lap and a cloth in his hand as he cleaned it. All the squires were sitting around working at various bits of saddlery or armoury, and had been chatting until Lucan entered, when an unfriendly silence fell.

"I'm Arthur's new squire," Lucan said, not liking to have to ask for help from anyone, but knowing well enough that he had to. "He said you'd show me the ropes."

The atmosphere in the tack room lightened immediately. The squire who had spoken first smiled friendlily, and stood up, putting the saddle carefully onto the bench. "Name's Drystan," he said with a grin that was, almost, infectious.

"Lucan."

"Good to meet you. Arthur hasn't had a squire for a long time. We had to take on the extra work. You'll lighten our load no end."

Lucan nodded slowly, unaccustomed to such friendliness. Drystan introduced Lucan to the other squires who were sitting around, and all grinned cheerfully at Lucan, making him far more uncomfortable than he had been with open hostility. "This is Arthur's armour," he said, showing Lucan the only Roman-style armour among the heap of helmets, breastplates and leg guards. "It's not really organised yet. We only got here yesterday, so everything's a bit of a mess. Nobody seems to know where anything is in this place. It took us half an hour to find the tack room!"

Lucan grinned at the young man's enthusiasm. He found himself warming to the boyish figure, who did not seem to mind Lucan's customary silence. Drystan was, Lucan guessed, about his own age, and had close-cropped hair and a sharp face with an open grin.

"Have you lived here long?" he asked Lucan as they rummaged through the armour.

"Fifteen years," Lucan said.

"Then you'll know where everything is then. Good thing Arthur found you! Do you know how to clean armour?"

Lucan, taken off guard by Drystan's sudden change of topic, nodded mutely.

"Good, what about how to put an edge on a blade?"

"No."

"No matter. I'll teach you. Arthur has two swords, a training one, and Excalibur," he held up the shining blade reverently. "He hasn't used it much since he became King, but it's worth more than all of our lives put together."

Lucan smiled grimly. It was always good to know where one stood in the order of things. He dragged his attention back to Drystan, who was chattering away quite happily about the swords.

"Thank the Gods Arthur's finally gotten around to getting a squire," Drystan said as he led Lucan through the fort, towards the stables. "It's been months since the old one left, and we've been getting the brunt of the work since then."

"Why did he leave?" Lucan asked, curiosity overcoming his natural animosity.

Drystan pulled a face. "The monster pinned him against a stable wall and broke a couple of his ribs before he escaped. He said it was the final straw."

"The...monster?" Lucan asked tentatively.

"Arthur's warhorse: a stallion called Finn, but all of us call him the monster. He's a right brute in the stable - only Arthur can get anywhere near him. I don't envy your job, honestly. But Arthur's a good man. He'll probably release you from service when you've been kicked about a bit. I say probably, of course, because he's not going to find another squire with the horse he's got. He should get a nice mild gelding or..."

Drystan rattled on happily, oblivious to Lucan's lack of response or interest. Lucan just let it roll over him. He wasn't used to so much conversation in his life: the last fifteen years had consisted of sharp orders, reprimands, or taunts. He rarely, if ever, heard praise directed at him, but what was even more unusual was being spoken to like a friend. Drystan seemed quite content to chatter away nineteen-to-the-dozen, unaware of Lucan's blank expression.

"We sleep over the stables," he was saying to Lucan. "There's an old hay-loft up there that we've taken over. It'll probably only be for a short time now, because I heard Bors saying that we're expected to stay here for some time, and with winter coming on they wouldn't be so cruel as to make us sleep outside." He paused in his narrative as a thought came to him. "Where do you sleep now?" he asked Lucan amicably.

"Outside," Lucan said shortly.

"Oh," Drystan said, momentarily stumped by the reply, but soon he was back to chattering away about nothing in particular as he led Lucan to the royal stables.

"Well, that's Finn," he said, pointing to a big, mean-looking grey. "Guinevere and Arthur's daughter's horses are on the left, and on the right are the other knight's horses, first is Balin, Bors' horse." He went over to pat the nose of the horse he cared for, while Lucan eyed Finn up. The horse looked relatively harmless as he chewed away contentedly at the hay in his manger, but Lucan could see a glint in the brute's eyes that warned him well enough of his real character without the need for Drystan's caution

Lucan moved towards the box, drawing back the bolts and letting himself in, ignoring the shout of warning from Drystan. Finn instantly whipped his head around, teeth bared and ears flat against his neck.

"Oh don't be so silly," Lucan said lightly, flicking the horse on the nose as he moved into the stable and bolted it behind him.

Finn looked surprised for a moment, and then darted his head forward to bite Lucan on the arm, but Lucan was faster: he grabbed Finn under his jaw, and brought the horse's face around so he was eye to eye.

"Now we're going to be with each other for some time, so we're going to get along. I don't want to be cruel, but I will be if you don't change your behaviour," he said in a serious tone.

Finn's ears, that were laid flat back, crept forwards as he listened to the human's voice. Lucan smiled. "We're going to get along just fine," he said, patting Finn on the withers and letting himself out of the stable.

Drystan was standing there, looking at Lucan in awe. "How did you do that? Finn should have kicked you right out of the stable!"

Lucan shrugged and looked away, when he saw Arthur cross the yard towards him. He bolted the stable-door behind him, and turned to face his new Lord and Master, his eyes wary.

"My Lord," he said in greeting, as Arthur approached, though his voice was far from submissive.

"I see you're getting on well with Finn," Arthur said in a cheerful tone. "That'll make life easier. You've heard the stories I suppose?" he asked, raising one eyebrow at Drystan who blushed guiltily. "Anyway, the knights are going to scout around the surrounding area tomorrow morning. I want Finn ready for just after dawn. Once it's been cleaned, you can bring my armour to my rooms this evening. We'll want to be quite heavily armed, so bring Excalibur as well."

"My Lord," Lucan said as all the answer that Arthur would get.

"You'll probably want to do the same for Bors," Arthur said to Drystan, and with a nod to both the squires he left, his mind a riot. What had he let himself into, getting that boy to be his squire? He had expected the quiet, submissive child he had known, not the rebellious man that had stood before him. Arthur sighed and shook his head slightly. What had he let himself in for?


	2. Rebel

**A/N – **Thank you to everyone who reviewed this. If you're reading this then please, please press that little button to submit a review at the end – I do accept anonymous reviews, and they make me a very happy little person. Anyway, enjoy the chapter, and my thanks, as ever, go to homeric for checking this for me!

* * *

'_Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.'_

_Paul Boese_

**Chapter Two: Rebel**

Lucan came down to the stables at dawn the next day. He checked on Finn, patting the big grey's nose in a fond, if patronising, kind of way. Finn bared his teeth at Lucan, who just laughed and went on with his stable chores: filling up the water buckets and checking the stallion's hooves and legs.

None of the other squires had yet risen, but Lucan was used to being up at dawn or before, to start the fires in the forge for the blacksmith to begin his work when he came down.

He had been up until the early hours of the morning with the other squires the night before in the inner courtyard. Lucan had sat in a corner, nursing a cup of wine, as he watched his companions drink themselves into a stupor, or spend the evening trying to entice the bar maids onto their laps. From what he had seen of the state of the other squires this morning, Lucan was not regretting having drunk so little, and this feeling was only increased when Drystan stumbled down the ladder from the hayloft just after dawn, scowling at Lucan.

"What are you doing up so early?" he asked grumpily.

Lucan grinned: an action not often practised in the last fifteen years of his life. "Isn't it a lovely day?" he asked in an overly cheerful voice, and was quickly rewarded with a moan from Drystan.

"Don't talk so loudly," he complained, holding his head in his hands with a look of pain from Drystan.

"Go and stick your head in the water trough," Lucan said unsympathetically, before leaving the stables and heading for the tack room so that he could get Finn's saddle and bridle to have him tacked up for when Arthur arrived.

He entered the small room, and stopped dead in his tracks. Finn's saddle and bridle, which he had left beautifully cleaned the night before, were filthy. Someone had thrown dust and dirt all over the once-shining tack and rubbed it into the leatherwork, ruining the tack, and Lucan shook with a silent rage. He knew who had done this.

Twenty minutes late found Lucan tacking up Finn with a freshly cleaned saddle and bridle. His eyebrows were lowered in a heavy scowl, and Drystan, who did not know what had caused the transformation from the cheerful mood he had been in only a few minutes earlier, kept well away from him, as did all the other squires.

Inside, Lucan was fuming. He knew who had done this, and by the Gods they would pay. He had just one real enemy in the fort: a boy of his own age, by the name of Albion. He and Lucan were rivals, but more than that. Albion had a group of cronies who followed him around, picking on anyone they could. Lucan was a lone wolf in the fort: he had no real friends, and so was a perfect target for Albion.

From their first encounter, when Lucan had flattened him, they were sworn enemies. Both evenly matched when it came to fighting, neither hesitated to do anything that would spark another brawl off. It was a constant source of shame to Lucan that Albion had beaten him to a pulp on their second encounter, and although no match since then had ever been fully decided (the boys being dragged apart before any serious damage was caused), both were waiting for the opportunity to get their revenge.

Lucan would get his revenge. Arthur's words of warning only the day before were gone from his mind: all that he could think of was a burning hatred towards Albion, which only grew when Arthur commented, kindly, but commented nonetheless, that the tack was not as clean as he was used to.

Once the King and the knights had left the squires to their jobs at the fort while they went out to scout the area, Lucan set himself up to wait for Albion. He took Arthur's helmet, and sat in a dark corner of the yard as he cleaned it.

The other squires, sensing his black mood, although unaware of the cause of it, were wise enough to keep away from him, for which Lucan was glad. He was angry, not only at Albion, but at himself for behaving with such amiability towards Drystan. He did not need friends. He never had and never would. Friends were a weakness. All that Lucan needed were his fists.

His chance came at mid-morning. Lucan, who had been watching the courtyard out of the corner of his eye all morning, suddenly saw Albion walk past him, surrounded by a pack of his friends, unaware of the hate-filled form of Lucan lurking in the shadows.

Albion was flat on his back, the wind knocked from him, before he had even realised what had happened. As soon as Lucan had seen him he had shot forwards, bowling into Albion, and knocking them both to the ground.

Lucan sat on Albion's chest and tightened his hands around his enemy's throat. Albion promptly sunk his teeth into Lucan's hand, who let out a yell, and a second later they were rolling over, pummelling each other, scarcely conscious of their own wounds.

One of Albion's friends found the courage to help, and hurled himself at Lucan, who turned and knocked him to the floor with a single punch. Albion, however, had taken the chance to get to his feet, and the two boys circled each other warily, oblivious to the shouts of the grooms and spectators around them who were unwilling to get involved in the fight.

Suddenly Albion launched himself at Lucan, who grabbed him by the collar, and, sticking his hip out, used Albion's own forward motion to throw him onto his back. Lucan heard Albion groan, and threw himself onto him, to the satisfying noise of breaking ribs.

Albion let out a yell, and then rolled, with a greater speed than Lucan would have credited him with, and suddenly Lucan was underneath him, his arms pinned under the other's legs, and his face unprotected from the blows that rained down on him.

With a snarl Lucan jerked his body up, head-butting Albion in the face, and the latter reeled backwards, spitting blood and swearing.

Which was exactly when Arthur returned from his scouting party. With a few short orders barked at his knights, Lucan found his arms pinned behind his back, Albion facing the same treatment.

Lucan growled angrily, and launched himself forwards, desperate to punch Albion's lights out, knights or no, but the grip on his arms tightened as they were pulled upwards until Lucan yelped out and stopped struggling.

"I wouldn't try that again," a deep voice said, which Lucan identified as Bors, one of Arthur's knights. Lucan could just make out that it was Sir Galahad holding Albion, and subjecting him to much the same treatment as Bors, but then the blood from a cut above his eye blurred his vision, and Lucan could only swear helplessly.

Bors laughed at this, a deep rumble of a laugh, which only made Lucan all the angrier, and he squirmed in Bors' strong grasp, unwilling to admit defeat. He was suddenly aware, through the blood that blurred his vision, that someone was standing in front of him, and he stopped his escape attempts and fell still, squinting to make out who it was.

Arthur stood, surveying his new squire. Only the day before he had told the boy that he was forbidden to fight, and less than twenty-four hours later he had blood running down his face, a broken nose and Arthur dared not guess how many bruises and broken ribs. The blood from the cut on his brow had run down into his eyes, and though Arthur saw that he was trying to work out who stood before him, the rebellious look in his eyes persisted.

"Take him inside," Arthur told Bors with a sigh, not looking forwards to dealing with him. He turned, as Lucan was led away, to the boy that Lucan had been hell-bent on killing. "What's your name?" he asked in a steely voice.

"Albion," he muttered sullenly, and Arthur was impressed to see how much more damage Lucan had done to Albion, than had been done to himself.

"Off you go," he said in a suffering voice. Galahad promptly released Albion, who ran off quickly, afraid of the King and his knights.

The squires, who had run out to take the knights' horses, stood in an uncertain silence as they watched Lucan get hauled off. They had lived with the knights long enough that Arthur rarely lost his temper, but when he did, he was terrifying. Drystan could see a vein pulsing in the King's jaw – the first sign that Arthur was loosing his composure.

The squires scurried forwards to take the horses and lead them away, so as to absent themselves as quickly as possible, and it was only Drystan who spared to send a sympathetic glance Lucan's way.

* * *

Lucan explored his face with his fingers, tracing them over the drying blood and slow forming bruises as he tried to work out how much damage had been done. He was slowly beginning to feel the pain that he had not heeded in the heat of the battle, and now, almost two hours later, the tenderness was setting in.

He shifted on his feet uncomfortably. Bors had taken him up to the room the knights used for their meetings, and left him there. No one had come anywhere near Lucan since then, and so he dwelt on his throbbing cuts and wondered what Arthur was going to do with him.

Waiting for punishment was a new concept to Lucan. Before he had always been hauled straight out of a fight and into a caning, which he had rarely felt as he was still on a battle-high. Lucan scowled and kicked the wall irritably. Why wouldn't he come up and get it over with? Then he could dismiss Lucan from his service, and go and find himself a proper squire, not some lowly gutter-rat.

There was a slight creak as the door swung open, and Lucan turned, straightening slightly, a wary expression in his eyes as Arthur entered, closing the door carefully behind him.

They stood for a moment, studying each other, as they had the day before on the wall, when they had first met. Arthur's face was as emotionless as usual, and Lucan was uneasy that he couldn't read anything in his King's expression.

"I'm disappointed," Arthur finally said.

Lucan looked at him uneasily. For some strange reason that he did not begin to comprehend, Arthur's disappointment was far worse than any amount of anger would have been.

"I actually dared to believe that I could make something of you," Arthur was continuing, his tone relentless. "Maybe I was wrong."

Lucan was filled with an urge to say that he was not wrong, that he could make something of himself if he tried, but he was silenced by the expression in Arthur's eyes.

"Prove that I was not wrong," Arthur said, and Lucan, who had dropped his head in shame, looked up quickly.

"You'll let me stay as your squire, my Lord?" he asked, and it was not only amazement that Arthur read in his face. There was also gratitude: an alien emotion to Lucan, but it was gratitude all the same.

Arthur sighed, "Yes, fool that I am."

"But…why?" Lucan asked, honestly confused. "My Lord," he added quickly, remembering his manners.

Arthur, amused by Lucan's sudden submissiveness though he did not let it show, simply said, "I need you. I've never before met anyone who could handle Finn, and I know that if I let you go, I'll come to regret it when I cannot find another squire. Don't make me regret keeping you."

Lucan said nothing, suddenly filled with a million doubts. How was it that a few words from Arthur could make him feel so much worse than a thousand beatings for bad behaviour? He had never before been forgiven for anything, and so did not know how to react to it. Always before he had done wrong, and he had been punished: to Lucan, that was the way the world worked. He did not know of Arthur's Christian beliefs on forgiveness and love of enemies, and so he was wary of the new emotion that surged within him: the emotion that was gratitude.

"Go and get yourself cleared up," Arthur said in a weary tone. "And don't even think about getting into another fight."

* * *

Arthur sank wearily down onto a seat, resting his head in his hands. There had been few times in the last fifteen years, when he had regretted becoming King, but this was one of them. Britain was falling apart.

The Romans had abandoned the country, and the people, who for fifteen years had recognised Arthur as their King, were beginning to go back to their old ways. The Saxons were once more taking an interest in the northern border, so Arthur had been forced to move away from the centre of power at Camelot, to this Godforsaken fortress by the coast: the place he had lost Dagonet, Lancelot, Tristan and so many others.

He hated this Roman place: it held a thousand reminders of a life he wanted to forget. Memories of a life not his own: of a life before he had been granted his freedom, a life in which his greatest friend had died for him. Arthur had not even gone down to the graves yet: he did not know if he had the strength to bear to see such painful reminders of the men whom had fought and died beside him for fifteen years.

Arthur was no longer as young as he had once been, and he was feeling his age more than ever now. What would happen to Britain once he was gone? With no male child to succeed him the country would collapse into civil war, and the work of his life would be destroyed. His only hope would be to get Sienna married to someone that his people would respect, and accept as their King once he was gone.

"You need to get some sleep," a worried voice said from the door.

Arthur's head snapped up immediately, and for one short moment he remembered, with a pang, all the times that Dagonet had told him the same thing. But it was not the ghost of the long-dead Dagonet who stood there, but he flesh and blood of Guinevere, as beautiful and queenly as ever.

Arthur grimaced at her, and she entered the room, watching him with concern on her face. "What is it love?" she asked, her voice full of anxiety.

"Life, the world, and everything," Arthur said with a shrug. "For starters."

Guinevere smiled at this, though it was a sad smile, not like when they were younger and first married, when a smile from her would light up the room, and send armies to their knees. She, too, was feeling her age, and her love of her husband meant that any concern he had was felt by her.

Arthur reached out to her, stroking her cheek gently. Guinevere raised her head from where it had been lowered, and met his gaze with hers, not trying to hide the growing distress in her eyes. She blamed herself for not being able to provide him with a male heir, and though they both loved Sienna to the bottom of their hearts, both knew what the consequences would be for Britain if Arthur died with no one to succeed him.

Guinevere caught Arthur's large, rough hand to her cheek, and kissed it gently. "You need to rest more," she told him, looking at him critically.

"There's so much to do," he told her half-heartedly.

"There's always so much to do!" Guinevere replied, though there was no anger in her voice, only an aching sadness. She could feel herself loosing him, slowly, day-by-day, and it hurt her.

Arthur sighed and dropped his head slightly as he remembered something he needed to talk with his wife about. Arthur began warily, broaching a subject that he had been trying to avoid. "Sienna…" he began, "...she needs to marry soon," he said, his words careful, unsure of what his wife's reaction would be.

Guinevere nodded sadly. "I know," she said softly. "I just..." her voice choked up, and Arthur moved over to her, cradling her in his arms. "I don't want to loose my baby," Guinevere whispered, appalled at her own patheticness.

Arthur held her close to him, and suddenly a hundred memories flooded through him: lifting her frail body out of the dungeon when he had first met her, her dark eyes burning with life as she teased him on the carriage in the snow, fighting beside her, both on the ice and on Badon hill, the first time he realised her loved her. He sighed softly, realising how much he had lost in the last few years.

Guinevere pulled up, wiping her eyes fiercely. "I'm so silly," she said with a high-pitched giggle that was more like a sob.

Arthur smiled at her gently, and kissed her on the forehead. "You'll tell her?" he asked tentatively.

Guinevere nodded and stood up, no trace that she had been crying on her face. First and foremost, she was a queen, and people expected a queen to be strong and beautiful, so being a woman, with hopes and fears, came second to everything else. "I will tell her," she said.

"You don't have to tell her immediately," Arthur promised. "It will be a while before I can find someone worthy of her." He spoke the last few words to comfort his wife, and soften the blow for her. Guinevere smiled uncertainly at him, unfamiliar emotions rushing though her, as she realised how long it had been since he had held her in his arms.

Arthur paused, reluctant to end the moment that had been so precious to him, but knowing only too well how much work he had to do.

"Go," Guinevere said softly.

Arthur smiled that she understood him so well after all these years, and kissed her on the forehead again before rising to leave the room.

"I love you," she whispered softly to him as he left the room, but he did not respond, so she did not know if he had heard her. "So much."


	3. Pupil

**A/N – **Well here you go guys – another update. I'm not that sure about this chapter: it was a pain to write, and I'm not sure if it's really alright, so if you see anything that would drastically improve it, please don't hesitate to tell me!

* * *

**Pupil**

_Experience: the most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn._

_CS Lewis_

Lucan had never been in so much pain as he was when he rolled out of bed the next morning. His eye was swollen into an extravagant display of colours, his body was covered in dark bruises, and the dried blood over the cuts on his face split open as he moved, sending fresh stabs of agony into his aching body.

He swore loudly as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and hunted for a flint to light a candle. When a flickering light illuminated the sparse room Lucan dragged the rest of himself out of bed, swearing all the time, and began to dress, ignoring the various aches and pains as he moved.

It was the first night that he could remember having slept in a real bed, though he had not appreciated it, for every time he rolled over he moved onto another sore spot and promptly woke up. But there was one thing that Lucan definitely appreciated, and that was being able to get dressed in the warmth of the room. The squires had been allocated rooms the day before, and Lucan could still not dare to believe that he had a whole room to himself, a real bed, proper bedding and even a small table upon which the dancing candle stood.

Lucan pulled his tunic over his head, and scraped his fingers through his messy hair before opening the door and letting himself out into the corridor. His room was nearest to the stables, beside it was Drystan's, and then the other squires were scattered in various rooms of their own down the corridor.

Lucan hammered on Drystan's door, remembering how reluctant he had been to rise the previous morning, and waited until he heard a curse and a groan from Drystan, before making his way down the passage towards the stables.

He entered the courtyard just as the grey fingers of dawn were beginning to lace the sky. It was cold: a thin frost lay on the ground, but as Lucan glanced up into the clear morning sky, he felt an unfamiliar burst of optimism. It was still winter, but slowly drawing into spring, and he got an odd feeling of hopefulness that summer would not long be on its way. He was not used to such feelings of hope: life just had to be lived, however bad things got. So much had changed in a few days that Lucan barely recognised the squire that he had become.

* * *

An hour later, and Lucan was tapping softly on the door to Arthur's quarters, the King's breastplate under his arm and Drystan holding his helmet beside him. Arthur opened the door almost immediately, standing back to let the squires enter.

Lucan gazed around the room curiously as he stepped through the door, not quite knowing what to expect from a king's room. It was large, and had hangings on the wall and rugs on the floor. There was a large table by one wall, strewn with tablets and documents, and from the burnt-out candles on it, Lucan guessed that Arthur had been up working most of the night.

There were several doors out of the room, leading to the king and his family's private chambers, but the main room in which Lucan stood was the one that the King worked in.

"I brought your armour up my Lord," Lucan said. "The armourer patched it up alright, but you might want to be careful with it, it's quite old metal."

Arthur was not really listening, but studying Lucan's face. "Did you get that seen to?" he demanded, motioning at Lucan's swelling eye.

"I put some meat on it," Lucan said apologetically.

Arthur sighed and shook his head slightly as he took the breastplate and inspected it. "You should go to a healer," he told his squire.

Lucan shrugged. "I've had worse, and I'm still alive," he said by way of explanation.

Arthur had his back to Lucan as he replaced his armour on the stand in one corner of his room, so it was only Drystan who saw him roll his eyes in despair as he handed the helmet to the king.

"Will you be needing Finn today my Lord?" Lucan asked. "Because if you don't I'll take him to get re-shod."

"No, I won't be needing him," Arthur said. "But I will be needing you."

Lucan looked up, a wary expression on his face. "What for my Lord?"

"You need to learn how to fight," Arthur told him as he sifted through a pile of documents on his desk.

Lucan frowned slightly, wondering if the old King was going mad, and was just about to comment when Arthur turned back to him, an apologetic expression on his face. "That sounded ridiculous didn't it?" he asked with a tired grin. "What I meant is, you need to learn to fight with a sword."

Lucan narrowed his eyes. "I don't see why I need to," he said, his voice becoming slightly hostile. Drystan shifted nervously, knowing only too well what Lucan could be like in this mood.

"If there is a battle, squires will be expected to fight alongside their master," Arthur explained. "You need to know how to wield a sword."

Lucan had his doubts, but he kept them to himself. "Yes my Lord," he agreed.

"My Lord," Drystan butted in. "Lucan's only just recovering from the beating he got yesterday. Perhaps he could have some time to recover?"

Lucan threw an irritated glance at Drystan, not liking to be treated like a child, but it was Arthur who answered. "Warriors need to be able to fight under any physical condition. Do you understand?"

"Yes my Lord," Drystan and Lucan mumbled together.

"Good," Arthur said, his mind already drifting to other things. "Then I will see you in the training arena in two hours Lucan. Make sure you bring two practise swords."

"Yes my Lord," Lucan said, recognising a dismissal when he heard one, and made his way to the door, followed by Drystan.

When he entered the corridor, the familiar rage was beginning to wash over him. How dare that old man teach _him_ how to fight? He, who had been fighting for every one of the last fifteen years of his life? He growled angrily to himself as he stalked down the corridors, inwardly fuming.

"Lucan!" Drystan said, a warning in his voice, and Lucan calmed down a bit. After all, how hard could it be?

* * *

Later that afternoon, he stood with sweat pouring down his body, silently throwing every swear word in every language he had ever heard at the king, as he repeated the drills for the hundredth time, while Arthur watched him from the edge of the arena.

"Better," Arthur called out as Lucan finished the complex series of swings that Arthur had been instructing him in, and Lucan's heart leapt slightly to heart those two words from his master. However a moment later the truculent scowl on his face returned as Arthur added, "but you've let your stance go too wide again."

Lucan felt a surge of anger. He had been working for hours, doing thousands of repetitions of tiny movements, as if he wasn't in enough pain as it was, without adding to it by pushing his muscles to their very limits. Maybe Drystan had had a point, he admitted to himself.

"This is stupid," he growled to himself.

"What did you say?" Arthur asked, a slightly dangerous edge to his voice.

Lucan was about to mutter "nothing," when something snapped in him, and he swung around to face Arthur, throwing the blunt practise sword into the sand.

"This is stupid," he repeated, louder this time.

Arthur raised one eyebrow. "Oh is it?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"Yes it is," Lucan continued recklessly. He was fed up with being kicked around, treated like a fool and expected to slave away the whole time. "I can fight perfectly well," he ploughed on. "This is a waste of my time."

"You may be able to fight against another unarmed man, but what happens when he is armed?" Arthur asked, rising from where he was leaning against the fence.

Neither the king nor the squire saw the crowd beginning to grow around the arena, drawn by the angry words and promise of an interesting show.

"I would beat him," Lucan said in a flat voice.

Arthur raised one eyebrow slowly. "Oh would you?" he asked, his voice scathing, which just served to infuriate Lucan further.

"Yes I would."

* * *

Out in the crowd, the King's daughter sighed loudly. "Some men are so arrogant," she commented to her maid and confidant, Brietta, but as she turned to the young woman, who was a few months older than she was, she saw her maid's eyes were not looking at Lucan, nor even at the training arena, but were following the steps of a young man with close-cropped hair and a sharp face.

"Still drooling over Drystan?" Sienna teased Brietta lightly.

Brietta immediately blushed and dropped her gaze, causing Sienna to laugh out loud. The two had grown up together: Brietta's mother had nursed Sienna through her childhood, until she had died a year previously, and Brietta was now not only Sienna's maid, but her trusted, and only, friend.

The maid's gaze lifted immediately when she heard Arthur call out Drystan's name, and, without any need for communication between them, the two girls moved closer to the arena to see what was happening.

* * *

"Drystan!" Arthur called out, seeing the squire pass the arena.

Drystan put down the bucket of water that he had been carrying, and went to Arthur in the training arena immediately, climbing through the post-and-rail fence that encircled it.

"Lucan here reckons he could beat an armed man with no weapons himself. I want you to prove him wrong," Arthur said, holding out the practise sword to the youns man.

Drystan took the blade warily, not because he was incompetent with it, on the contrary, he had wielded a blade since he was seven, but because he did not want to hurt his new friend.

Lucan's scowl deepened as he and Drystan began to circle each other. Lucan held back, not wanting to make the first move, and so it was Drystan who moved first, sending a sweeping stroke forwards across towards Lucan, but the he simply stepped backwards, easily avoiding it.

Drystan, who had seen Lucan fight before, only just began to realise the speed with which the squire reacted, and found himself fighting more warily. Lucan skipped out of the way of the next few blows, impatient to finish the match, but not wanting to hurt Drystan, so he simply avoided the strokes as he considered it.

Finally he saw his chance, and as Drystan sent a high, horizontal stroke towards where Lucan's head was, the dark-haired squire dropped to the ground, and, putting all his weight onto his left hand, he swung his legs around the back of the squire, hitting the back of his knees. Drystan's legs buckled, and Lucan was already back on his feet and catching the sword by the time Drystan hit the floor with a surprised look on his face.

"I didn't see that coming," he admitted sheepishly as Lucan hauled him back onto his feet.

Lucan shrugged. "Street brawls teach you to fight dirty," he said with a flat voice.

* * *

Sienna scowled. "He thinks he's so wonderful," she hissed to Brietta.

"He is!" Brietta exclaimed, a surprised look on her face, before she suddenly blushed, realising that it was not Drystan that Sienna was talking about.

Sienna grinned. "You've got it bad," she said with some satisfaction.

"I have not!" Brietta exclaimed, but only half-heartedly, for her eyes immediately flicked back to Drystan. "It's just…" she trailed off, unable to find the words.

Sienna laughed, a light, ringing laugh that would send men to their knees. "Oh my poor little lovesick friend," she said with a smile.

Brietta stuck her tongue out at Sienna, which only served to make her laugh harder.

* * *

"So you can beat a man of your age," Arthur said with reluctant admiration. "But can you beat a fully-grown, battle-scarred adult?" He picked up the blade that lay unused in the corner of the arena, and turned back to Lucan, raising one eyebrow as if daring him to take up the challenge. To be perfectly honest, Lucan was beginning to irritate him. He was too cocky, too sure of himself, and though Arthur knew that he would, and could learn willingly when he thought it worth it, he felt it was his duty to take his overconfident squire down a notch. Lucan's familiar glower reappeared on his face, as he moved to a crouching position.

The match was short and brutal. Within a matter of a few seconds, or so it seemed, Lucan was on his back, Arthur's sword at his throat. He tried to look angry, but in truth he couldn't be, for he was too much in awe of the king's far superior fighting skills. He had not even seen Arthur's intentions in his eyes. He had learnt to fight in the gutter where there were no rules, and so reading your opponent was everything.

He pulled himself to his feet. Painfully aware of the stares of the crowd, all of whom had witnessed his rather humiliating defeat. As he brushed the sand from his sleeves he noticed the king's daughter in the crowd, a smirk on her face at seeing him lose so badly.

Lucan turned away from her, spitting with rage again, but Arthur, seeing the shame on his face, although he did not know that Sienna was specifically the cause, mollified him with a few words. "You are very fast, you'll make a good swordsman if you want."

Lucan picked up a sword, his pride soothed, and looked at his king. "Well then," he said with a sigh. "I suppose I better start practising."


	4. Chaperon

A/N – Thanks, as ever, to everyone who's reviewed the last chapter. Not much to say about this one, except enjoy. Oh, and Happy Valentines Day for tomorrow!

* * *

**Chapter Four: Chaperon **

Sienna sat in her room, embroidering a small square of cloth. 'Always such a dutiful daughter,' she thought with a hint of bitterness, and she raised her eyes to where Brietta was standing in front of the window, brushing her long, glossy hair as she stared out with dreamy eyes.

Sienna smiled to herself as she put her embroidery down, and she made her way, on silent feet, to where her maid was standing, and peered out over her shoulder.

"Ah, so it _is_ Drystan that caught your eye," she said in Brietta's ear, causing her to jump.

"I wish you wouldn't do that!" Britta said in an annoyed voice, when she realised it was Sienna.

"What?" Sienna asked, a mischievous smile on her face. "Tease you about Drystan, or creep up on you?"

"Both," Brietta said with a mock-pout.

Sienna laughed, "Oh forgive me! You have to let me have my fun. It's not as if I'll ever get the chance to moon around, falling in love."

"You might," Brietta replied evenly.

Sienna met Brietta's gaze, and the older girl could see, carefully hidden in the depths of her eyes, a deep unhappiness there. She was very like her mother, Brietta thought, slightly startled at the realisation. Both suffered without ever letting anyone else see any signs of it.

Sienna was shaking her head. "No," she said softly. "You know that princesses don't get to fall in love."

"You may fall in love with the man that you have to marry," Brietta offered out what little comfort she could.

Sienna smiled sadly. "Things don't work that way, you know that." She pulled herself together, smiling overly-brightly. "But why worry about things that have not happened yet? My parents have not even spoken to me of marriage yet, so it seems that I still have at least a year of freedom left."

Brietta studied her anxiously. "Are you really alright Sienna?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

"Yes," Sienna said, her voice giving away nothing. "Just bored!" she exclaimed as she threw herself onto her large bed. "Do you know how long it's been since I last went out of this place?"

"I'm sure I have no idea," Brietta said, sitting down and smoothing her skirts. When Sienna was in this wild, wilful mood, she usually felt like giving up on her.

"When we arrived here!" Sienna said. "I have not been out since we got here."

"Then go riding," Brietta told her in an infuriatingly calm voice.

Sienna paused, and rolled over to look at Brietta.

"You wouldn't mind me leaving you?" she asked. Although in her mind she was already soaring over the plains with her horse, Ch'niel. Brietta hated riding, and never accompanied Sienna when she rode out.

"Oh I'm sure I could find something to occupy my time," Brietta said, as she silently wondered where Drystan might be.

* * *

Lucan stood in his usual place, just behind Arthur's left shoulder, as the King bent over a tablet on the table before him. He finished writing on it, and handed it back to his squire who added it to the growing collection in his arms. 'So this is what a squire does,' Lucan thought, slightly irritably. 'Act as a bloody clerk, when I could be doing something useful.' He thought wistfully of Arthur's new horse: a black stallion with a serious dislike of humans. Lucan knew that, if Arthur gave him the chance, he could make such a mount of the stallion that Kings would dream of riding it into battle. He sighed, slightly louder than he intended, for Arthur turned around to him, his eyebrows raised.

"Bored?" the King asked, amused by Lucan's lack of subtelty.

"No my Lord," Lucan said, shaking his head quickly. "In fact, I am having more fun than I have in a long time."

"Good," Arthur grunted, turning back to his work, leaving Lucan to roll his eyes at the ceiling and return to his fantasies about riding the stallion.

Another half-hour passed, and another tablet was just being added to Lucan's pile, when there came a soft knock at the door. Both Arthur and his squire looked up expectantly as Sienna entered.

"Mother said to tell you that I'm going riding," she said quickly, turning to go immediately before her father could have a chance to say anything. This plan, however did not work.

"Stop!" Arthur's commanding voice rang out, halting Sienna in her tracks. "Turn," he told her. She did so, her eyes brimming with a pleading look that would melt the heart of most fathers. "Explain," Arthur demanded.

"Oh please father," Sienna begged. "I haven't been out riding in ages!"

"Did your mother agree that you should go out alone?" Arthur asked.

"Well, not exactly," Sienna said in a wheedling voice. "But..."

"There are no buts, young lady. You will not go out riding alone," Arthur said in a decisive tone, turning back to his work.

"But father!" Sienna protested, and as Arthur raised his head she turned the full extent of her charm on him. Sienna had perfected the melting-hearts expression, and Arthur, though concerned for his daughter's well-being, was also too human to be able to deny anything of Sienna when she put that expression on.

"Alright," Arthur said with a sigh. "Lucan, you will accompany her."

Lucan, shocked as he was at this pronouncement, did not miss the flash of irritation in Sienna's eyes.

"Father!" Sienna protested, just as Lucan said, "But Sir!"

"Stop complaining!" Arthur said in exasperation. "You wanted to go riding, didn't you?" he asked Sienna, who nodded mutely. "And you were bored?" he asked, rounding on Lucan. "So you will stop complaining. I have enough work to do as it is."

Sienna glowered at Lucan for a moment before speaking. "I'll be in the stables in half an hour," she told him before turning and stalking out.

"You better be there in twenty minutes," Arthur told Lucan without looking up. "She's likely to try to go without you."

"My lord," Lucan assented, though in a voice that was far from happy.

"Take the tablets to Bors before you go," Arthur dismissed Lucan. "And try not to be too long. There are still jobs that need doing today."

Lucan hesitated for a moment before speaking, "what horse am I to ride my Lord?"

Arthur looked up, troubled for a moment, fleetingly troubled. He shrugged. "You can take Iblis," he said, naming a docile mare with little character.

"My lord," Lucan said in assent as he left, though he was inwardly fuming. Not only did he have to escort the pampered princess who obviously could not stand the sight of him, but he had to ride a mare who would rather die than show any enthusiasm for life.

He sighed as he delivered the tablets, but by the time he had gathered his weapons and cloak, and entered the courtyard he was feeling moderately enthusiastic. It had been a long, long time since he had last had a good ride, and he was hardly expected to talk to the princess was he? How bad could things really get?

* * *

An hour later, and Lucan realised that things could get worse. He could hardly get Iblis to move, and Sienna had not deigned to even look at him since she had arrived in the courtyard. She rode far away from him, and her pretty grey mare, Ch'niel, seemed only to happy to oblige her with whatever pace she wanted.

Lucan scowled angrily, giving Iblis another boot in the ribs to try and extract some more enthusiasm from her as he followed Sienna across the open heath.

Sienna played gently with Ch'niel's mouth down the reins as she rode, reminding the exuberant mare that she was still there. Neither the princess nor the mare had been out for months, and both wanted to stretch their legs ad get rid of the excess energy. If only she didn't have the squire with her, Sienna thought moodily. Still, at least she was out riding, instead of being cooped up in the stuffy fortress.

Lucan glanced up at the sky. It was going to start raining. Clouds were beginning to form, and he felt the wind pick up. Although he knew that it would be nothing more than a mild rainstorm, he felt obliged to inform the princess ahead of him that she would get her delicate little features wet if she didn't get a move on back to the garrison.

Lucan pushed Iblis forwards to a reluctant trot, until he was beside Sienna. She glanced at him disdainfully, but did not speak, and Lucan sighed inwardly. It seems as if someone had neglected to give her an education in courtesy.

"It's going to rain," he told her.

Sienna turned to look at him, bristling inwardly. Did he think that she was so spoilt that she would flee from a bit of rain?

"Are you going to head back to the fort?" Lucan asked when he realised that he would be getting no answer.

"And return to embroidering material?" Sienna said indignantly, before she realised she had spoken out loud. "I'd prefer to get wet."

Lucan, initially surprised at her outburst, found himself grinning slightly. "Me too," he agreed.

Sienna looked at him with raised eyebrows: an unspoken question.

"Not the embroidery part," he conceded. "But anything's preferable to holding tablets."

Sienna, who had almost smiled when he had commented on the embroidery, displayed an astonishing change of tack, and she scowled at Lucan. "I hardly think my father enjoys it any more than you do!" she said primly, before pushing Ch'niel forwards to ride ahead of Lucan.

Lucan shook his head. Why did he have to get stuck dealing with a conceited and ill-mannered royal? As he tried to exert some enthusiasm from his pessimistic mount, and catch up with Sienna on her tightly wound mare, it started to rain.

* * *

Lucan was soaked by the time Sienna decided that they would go back. The wind had picked up, and blew straight through his thin clothes onto his wet skin, so he was glad that he would have a chance to get into dry clothes, even if it did mean lugging tablets around the garrison for the next few hours.

Sienna was riding slightly ahead of Lucan, and as she reached the top of a crest in the land she pulled Ch'niel up, staring in wonder at the sight before her. A light, silver rain filled the air in the couple of miles between her and the fort, and a rainbow crowned the garrison. The land in front of the fort was all farmed, but a long, straight road ran through the patchwork fields. Sienna could feel Ch'niel aching to run, and the road, now soft enough for her mare's delicate hooves, and without any bends that she would have to slow down for, was just too much to resist.

She turned around as Lucan came up behind her and halted next to her. He whistled low, under his breath, and Sienna was surprised that he had even noticed how beautiful the old Roman buildings looked through the silvery curtain of rain.

"I'm going to stretch Ch'niel's legs," Sienna told Lucan.

Lucan nodded. "I'll try to keep up."

Sienna grinned at him, she actually _grinned _at him: Lucan was amazed, before she pushed Ch'niel off into first a trot, which grew faster and faster until she gave up trying to control her, and gave her her head. Ch'niel plunged forwards with only a few strides of canter before she broke into a gallop, and Lucan was momentarily worried that Sienna would fall; until he saw how confidently she handled her mare.

Suddenly Iblis realised that she was being left behind, or perhaps she realised that home was near - Lucan did not know either way, but the next minute his lazy mount was cantering faster than he thought possible.

Sienna glanced back over her shoulder, and her surprise showed on her face when she saw Lucan just behind her. He grinned at her, a rakish, excited grin, and Sienna could not help but laugh out loud as the two of them drew level and thundered down the road to the fort.

They pulled up just before the gates, and trotted in, side-by-side. Both had mud splattered up all over them, but Lucan strangely did not mind the prospect of hours of grooming the horses clean once more. It had been worth it.

Neither did Sienna worry overmuch about the looming sermon from her mother when she was presented with her daughter covered from head to toe in mud. 'A new dress, ruined!' Sienna could almost hear her mother's voice saying. Still, any amount of scolding from her mother would be worth it for that ride.

Lucan swung down from the heavily-breathing Iblis, and he flicked the mare's nose as he moved around the front of her. "It's your own fault for being so unfit you know," he said to her, as he moved to help Sienna down.

She took the hand he offered, and slid down to land gracefully on the ground as Lucan looked wistfully over at where two grooms that he did not recognise tried to break Arthur's black stallion into saddle.

Sienna, seeing that Lucan's attention was focused over Ch'niel's withers, turned to see what it was that he was looking at.

"They'll ruin him. I could do better than that!" Lucan exclaimed angrily, as he watched the grooms try to subdue the stallion with brute force.

"You're so arrogant!" Sienna said furiously, turning to face him.

Lucan blinked slightly, taken aback by Sienna's reaction. He had only really been commenting to himself and had certainly not expected the princess to reply the way she did. "I'm sorry?" he asked, wondering if he had heard right.

"You are cocky, and boastful, and you have no concept of gratitude or respect for anyone."

"Don't presume to think that you know anything about me or my life, princess," Lucan said, his face darkening.

"You think you are so special! You are so…" she fumbled for the word, her anger rising, "…big-headed!" she finished crossly.

"Well it's better than being a spoilt, pampered, conceited princess," Lucan retaliated with aplomb. "My lady," he added, managing to inflect a huge amount of derison on the two words.

"How dare you?" Sienna screeched.

"Forgive me, princess" Lucan said, his voice full of scorn, though his words were polite.

Sienna said nothing, but stood for a moment, both staring into each others eyes, each daring the other to say something. Eventually Sienna gave way, and, gathering the tattered remains of her pride around her, she swept away.

Drystan whistled low as he came to take Ch'niel from Lucan.

"What did you do to make her like that?" he asked, raising his eyebrows as he watched Sienna storm off.

"I don't know!" Lucan protested, his scowl deepening. "She's so spoilt."

"You should be more careful, my friend," Drystan said, real concern in his voice. "If she told her father you said any of that to her, heads would roll. Probably yours."

Lucan shrugged. "She's a conceited, stuck up..." his voice tailed off.

"Pretty though," Drystan said in wistful voice as the pair led the two horses into their stables.

"I hadn't actually noticed," Lucan admitted as he began to untack Iblis. He stopped as he remember something, and leaned over the partition in the stable, so that he could see Drystan. "I thought it was her maid that you were always staring at, anyway?"

Drystan blushed a dark red, which was all the answer Lucan needed. He laughed, and started to brush Iblis down, whistling merrily to himself, his previous bad mood forgotten.


End file.
